


Hit the Deck

by 37Cats



Category: This Means War (2012)
Genre: AU, Alternate Ending, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Porn, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:12:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/37Cats/pseuds/37Cats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the movie ends differently and then there is some inadvisable drunken threesome porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hit the Deck

**Author's Note:**

> I started this a little after seeing the movie in the theater, and just finished it up because I had written the bulk of it and it seemed silly not to post it. I didn't watch the movie again because of issues I had with it - so there are probably a lot of mistakes/incorrect-ness/what have you. I don't really care, though, because this was mainly an exercise in easing myself into writing porn!

She does the only thing she can do, which is hit the asphalt, put her arms over her head and pray to the sweet sweet baby Jesus, oh fuck, that she’s at a place in the path of the burning hunk of metal death where it’s airborne, as opposed to, you know, making anything under it go _splat_.

Afterwards it’s all awkward.

There are emotionless men in suits who want to debrief (debrief!) her and paramedics trying to get her into neck braces or to _at least come in to get checked out, ma’am, please_.

She’s pretty much in a daze and really just wants Trish to come pick her up and tell her that she told her so, and then drop her off at home so she can curl up in bed and never ever come out again (which is when she remembers _oh shit, car crash_ , and has a breakdown all over again).

Then it really is almost over - she can see the light at the end of the tunnel. There are big (creepy creepy) men in dark suits waiting by a big (slightly less creepy) dark SUV to take her home.

Which is when FDR sidles up to her, all big blue eyes and soot, with Turk hovering in the background looking hangdog.

And then they have to do the whole _so spies, huh_?

And _BFFs, huh?_

And _you’ve pretty much been lying to me about everything, huh?_

And _wait, have you been spying on me, because that would explain some shit that’s been bugging me— holy shit you have, haven’t you?_ And _oh my god, do you even know how creepy that is?_

And _yeah, assholes, don’t call me, I’ll call you — P.S. Don’t hold your fucking breath for it or anything_.

And then she gets to finally stagger over to the blessed darkness of the SUV and wait to be delivered home to cry over all the things in her life that are so totally fucked right now.

* * *

 

Life does, of course, go on - she should know, she’s been in enough disastrous relationships, with their equally shattering aftermath - to know.

Trish tells her that she _fucking told her so_ , and refuses to drive her anywhere for months afterward.  She goes on several dates, which turn out to be total car wrecks (not literally, thank god) but at least the guys are up front about the creep factor.

If she occasionally thinks she sees FDR lurking outside her job, or catches a glimpse of who she could swear is Tuck on the way to the gym, she ignores it, because no, just no (also, acknowledging that they may be following her around would mean acknowledging that little warm spark she may feel about that, which would mean acknowledging that she may feel comforted by being stalked, which would mean she may need to seek professional help).

Regardless, she shoulders on, and things settle down.  She starts to feel pretty good about herself, and life, and all that. She thinks about finally getting a dog, and she takes an art class, and is generally a self assured and independent woman who needs no man (men) to make her feel whole.

Which totally explains why she totters into the Blarney Stone at 12:50 on a Thursday night, after pouring Trish into a cab and swearing that she’ll take the next one home.

She has on her fuck me heels and is pretty sure her mascara is smeared (clearly they weren’t tough enough when they tested it) and hopes to god they’re not there because this is such a bad idea (only so so so so not).

They are there (how did she not connect the dots - she knew they had the same favorite bar, for fucking fucks sake).

FDR is leaning over a pool table, back to her, hair kind of glowing in the overhead light, and oh my god that ass. FDR misses his shot - skips the ball off the table misses the shot - and Tuck’s grab for the ball is way, way off, so maybe she’s not the only one too shitfaced to be making decisions like this, but whatever.

Tuck is leaning up against the wall, so he sees her first, and the way his eyes go dark makes her ache.She saunters up slow, only trips up once, thank you very much, and Tuck watches her the whole way.

When she gets close enough she runs her hand up FDR’s back, warm skin and hard muscle under the sleekness of his shirt, and rests her hand on the slight stickiness of his nape.  The way he stops cursing at the table and tenses up gives her a little thrill of danger, and the way his lips part and his flush makes his eyes blue blue blue once he's seen its her gives her a thrill of an entirely different kind.

Tuck shifts, and mutters, “Maybe I should…” He trails off a little helplessly.

“Get shots,” FDR finishes for him. “We’re going to need shots, lots and lots of shots.”

Her laugh is answer enough.

* * *

 

They end up in the back, squeezed into a booth, tequila and salt and lime and skin.

FDR bemoans the lack of pickles and black bread because _vodka, what they need now is vodka_.

Tuck shoves a lime in his mouth and she shoves a hand down his pants and it’s all down hill from there.

A little while later Tuck murmurs, “my place is closest” against her mouth.

“Shit, shit,” FDR groans into her hair. “My place, gotta pill the dog in the morning, and, uh, feed him, or he’ll piss all over my bed.”

“Are we really going to go twenty minutes out of the way to have a really inadvisable drunken shag just because your dog has a vindictive streak?” Tuck hisses. “That gives us time to think, thinking is bad, thinking is really bad.”

“He’s old,” FDR sounds defensive, “he’s allowed to be a grouchy old man.”

This is too much talking, too little action, so she clambers over Tuck, ignoring the way he grunts, and leans over the table because _cab, cab now_.

“I’m leaving and you can come or not.”

She doesn’t bother looking back, mostly because she can hear the quiet squabbling that follows her out of the bar.

* * *

 

FDR’s place is not where she remembers it being.  It actually takes her until they’ve all stumbled into the foyer to realize he’s moved (so drunk, she didn’t even realize she could still get this drunk). Smallish bungalow, quite neighborhood, what the actual fuck.

FDR starts trailing clothes as soon as the door is closed, a long line of bespoke breadcrumbs leading to what must be his bedroom.

Tuck is much more interested in kissing her neck, huffing soft breaths into her hair.

He pushes her up against every vertical surface he can find and smoothes his hands along the planes of her body, hands hot on her stomach, ass, lower back. He cups her breast and thrusts his tongue in her mouth.

She cants her hips and lets him push a muscled thigh between her legs. He groans in response and clutches her close, buries his face in her neck.

Over his shoulder she can see FDR leaned up against the doorway to his room, long torso bare, slowly palming his dick through his boxers.  He leers at her, filthy, and jerks his head back in invitation. Such a smart man. She’s reeling and a bed is such a good (bad bad bad) idea right now.

She pushes Tuck off, ignores his whine, and keeps pushing, backing him up until he runs into FDR. He jerks when he hits FDR’s chest, tries to turn around, but they both stop him. She grabs his head, gets a good grip, and kisses him for all she’s worth, chases the lingering taste of tequila. She can feel the backs of FDR’s hands against her stomach, smoothing down Tuck’s abs before grabbing his hips.  He uses the grasp to pull them all backwards, maneuvering them carefully into the room.

She closes her eyes tight and trusts him to get them where they need to go.

FDR grunts when he drops down on to the bed, pulling Tuck into the space between his thighs and slinging his arms around Tuck’s waist, pulling him close.

When she pulls back to get a good look at them Tuck takes the opportunity to twist around and drop a hand to the nape of FDR’s neck.

The picture they make is unexpectedly tender. Which is fine and all, but this is about really inadvisable drunken fucking, and the tableau is uncomfortably out of place.

Nakedness will fix this.  Apart from FDR there is a disturbing lack of nakedness here.

She shimmies out of her skirt and tank, takes a step forward and trips in her heels. When she leans down to unbuckle them Tuck makes a sound, low and desperate in the back of his throat.

“Fuck yeah,” FDR says, peering at her from around Tuck’s hip, “leave them on. I want to see him fuck you in them. Want to eat you out and feel them digging into my back.”

“Shit” Tuck groans, and jerks his hips against FDR’s chest once, twice.

She grins in response because oh yeah, totally fuck me heels (it’s always nice to be able to add more data to her assessment). She points at Tuck, tells him “shirt, pants, underwear” and is gratified when they tangle each other up in their rush to comply.

They go down on the bed in a tumble of limbs - dignity and grace are pretty much a lost cause from there on out. There are too many elbows and knees, and they are all grabbing too hard.

FDR won’t stop giggling, she gets two knees to the stomach, and she sticks Tuck with a heel in the meat of his shoulder, which will definitely leave an interesting bruise.

Tuck has a square of gauze taped to the smooth skin of his stomach, high on the left, just under his ribs, maybe four inches by four square. She doesn’t notice it until he’s between her legs, moving sure and steady.

FDR’s plastered himself to Tuck’s back, pupils blown, switching between watching her face and craning to stare at where she and Tuck are connected.

His fingers smooth the edges of the bandage, light, around and around, before he drags his nails down Tuck’s belly, leaving red lines, to wrap his fingers around the base of Tuck’s dick, rub a knuckle against her clit, crazy hot circles.

* * *

 

FDR wakes her up by kicking her in the ribs as he scrambles out of bed, and Tuck flails and curses like he got the similar treatment before rolling into the warm spot and wrapping around her, breath tickling against her neck.  Somewhere in the hallway a door slams and she can hear the muted sound of retching.

She closes her eyes again because the light is too bright and the bed is warm and she doesn’t have anywhere to be today.

She wakes up later because someone is breathing, hot and moist and truly, horribly smelly, right in her face. She blinks awake to a graying muzzle, one soulful brown eye, and one milky white one - it isn’t exactly the thing she wants to see first thing in the morning (or first thing in the afternoon, as the case may be).

Then the dog licks her, right across the face, and oh my god, she got some in her mouth. She rolls out of bed in self defense when it looks like he’s going to do it again, ignores Tuck’s grumbling, and stumbles out to find the kitchen.

When she gets there, after a quick stop in the bathroom to make use of FDR’s mouthwash and splash some water on her face, she finds him slumped at the counter, staring out the window, steaming cup of something clutched to his chest.

“Your dog’s breath stinks.” It might not be the most intelligent thing to say, given what happened last night, but he looks so mournful, and her head is pounding, what else can she say?

He swings towards her and grins, bright and shiny. She can’t tell if it’s real or not from where she’s hovering in the doorway.

“Yeah, sorry. He’s too old for anesthesia to be safe, so the vet can’t do a serious teeth cleaning; we’re stuck trying to make it better the old-fashioned way. You ever seen a dog use mouthwash?”

“I - no, can’t say that I have.”

“Well, if you stick around long enough you’ll get to.” He winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth, and rushes on. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Water?” she asks, and braves the kitchen while he bangs around in the cabinet. “I like the new place.” She gestures vaguely at the light wood of the cabinets, the French doors and the big backyard beyond them.  They are useless movements, since he’s now hunched over the sink filling up a cup, back to her.

“Yeah,” he sighs and turns slowly, “the pooch, he can’t hold it for very long. It was a real pain in the ass to keep going up and down the elevator. And I had to basically hire someone to housesit whenever I had a long day at the office. I got tired of having to clean-up work stuff every time. So -” he jerks a thumb at the electronic dog door set in the wall.

She recognizes it, top of the line, high tech, only opens for the transmitter embedded the a special collar. Of course, she’s sure this one has some extra-special super-secret modifications. Doggy retinal scans. Nose print recognition.

She tugs on her hair. Focus.

Their fingers brush when he hands her the cup. They should talk about this whole thing.

“Look, I -” she starts, and realizes she has no idea what she wants to say. FDR looks like he’s going to say something, but he stops too, just looks lost, lips slightly parted. They are saved by a thump and cursing from the bedroom, followed quickly by the slam of the bathroom door.

“You staying for breakfast?” he asks.

She chews on her lower lip. Licks it when she tastes blood. She thinks about the sound of flaming metal bouncing towards her and the way they had both reached out to her - terror and panic.

“You have any oatmeal?”

FDR grins, so real and open that she has to smile back.


End file.
